


anchored

by simplyclockwork



Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Fics - Part Two [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Neck Kissing, Pre-Slash, Supportive John Watson, Tumblr Prompt, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:40:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27070618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Prompted by anon on Tumblr:You know that (awful) scene on Christmas Day S3ep3 where John forgives Mary and tells her he accepts her for whatever she is; well I would love to see something like that but with John telling Sherlock he accepts him; possibly post season 4 and in the context of Sherlock having been diagnosed with depression. I’d like to see Sherlock struggle with the diagnosis and John encourage him and validate his experiences.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Fics - Part Two [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1968538
Comments: 40
Kudos: 187





	anchored

**Author's Note:**

> Heads up for descriptions of a depressive episode. I live with depression myself, and I just wanna say that if you do, too, I'm here.

“Sherlock.”

John’s voice reached him as if through a thick fog. A haze permeated Sherlock’s Mind Palace, wrapping intangible curls of mist down the halls and around his shivering form. The rooms looked faded and lacklustre, the diminished splendour of his surroundings marked by two words. Two words, repeated over and over, hanging in the air with the fog.

_Clinical. Depression._

_“Sherlock.”_

Emphatic this time, and spoken with moderate anxiety that made Sherlock lift his head and open his eyes. He looked up from where he lay curled on the couch and blinked at the face hovering over him. Dark blue eyes, a creased brow and a mouth that turned down at the corners with concern stared back at him.

_John._

“Hey,” John murmured, catching the focus in Sherlock’s glassy gaze. “There he is.” His eyes darted over Sherlock, taking in his tangled hair and rumpled clothes, now going on their third day in a row of wear. The creases deepened. “You okay?”

Sherlock felt thin—was he thinner? Had he lost weight? He couldn’t remember eating, couldn’t remember wanting to. Hunger was a faint memory of sensation, just like everything that had ceased to exist. Emotions, always so abhorrent, were seemingly out of reach. After feeling so much, so many terrible, tearing, terrifying things, Sherlock felt empty.

 _Clinical depression_ , the doctor said. _Not unsurprising, considering your history of trauma and the recent events in your life._

A bottle of pills sat on the coffee table, prescribed by the same doctor who put a name to the negative space growing inside Sherlock’s head. He had yet to take them. Sherlock stared at the bottle with a listless weight on his chest. Maybe he was having a heart attack. Wasn’t that one of the symptoms, feeling like an elephant was sitting on your chest?

Sherlock felt like he had an entire herd crushing him into the cracked leather of the sofa.

“Sherlock.”

The anxiety in John’s voice deepened. Definitely present, and when Sherlock looked back at him, he saw the corners of John’s mouth shift, his lips pressing into a hard, thin line. Sherlock blinked at him with marked disinterest. Wetting his lips, he found his voice and rasped, “Hello, John.”

Instead of easing John’s apparent concern, Sherlock’s greeting sharpened the creases in his face. “When was the last time you ate something?” His words were gentle, and his eyes were sharp as he studied Sherlock’s form, squinting as they settled on his torso.

“Not hungry.” Sherlock rolled onto his other side, facing the back of the couch. Every movement required a Herculean effort, and he was tired. Bone-deep weary and exhausted.

“How about a cup of tea?” John was relentless. Like the ocean, he was as predictable as the tide and as changeable as the world beneath the water’s surface. Sherlock stared at the back of the sofa and thought about erosion. About the sensation of being washed away.

Instead of answering, he said in a flat, empty voice, “I’m tired, John.”

A hand hovered over him, a tangible presence before it settled on his shoulder. Sherlock considered pulling away, but there were no more than a few inches between himself and the couch back, and moving felt impossible. More effort than he had to spare. It was easier to stay still and let the warmth of John’s palm seep into his body from a single point of contact.

Slowly, Sherlock realized he was cold.

“Why don’t we get you into bed?” John said gently, his hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on Sherlock’s shoulder through his dressing gown. “Can’t be comfortable on the couch, not with those long legs of yours.” The attempt at humour was weak, and they both knew it. Silence followed and settled heavily over them.

Sherlock made a low grunting noise when John’s expectant quiet stretched into something unbearable.

“Talk to me, Sherlock.” John’s request was nearly as heavy as the silence, making Sherlock curl into a tighter ball. Hugging his knees to his chest, he pushed his face into the cushions. John’s hand hesitated, stroked up his arm, fingers sliding to his nape. Feeling a light, gentle tug, Sherlock realized John was painstakingly working out a tangled mat of hair against the base of Sherlock’s skull.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let him, incapable of pinning down his feelings on the matter. There was only the emptiness, yawning wide and deep down. John’s fingers in his hair took the edge off, just a little, and Sherlock didn’t protest when John’s untangling shifted into a slow massage of fingertips over his skull. A soft sound escaped his lips before he could bite down on it, and John’s fingers faltered. He picked up the rhythm again, the pad of a thumb drifting over Sherlock’s temple.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” John finally said. By the sound of his breathing, he was kneeling beside the sofa. His other hand landed on Sherlock’s side, just above his hip, a firm, sturdy anchor keeping Sherlock in his body when all he wanted was to drown in his head. The hand on his waist gripped gently, and John added, “But I’m here if you do.”

Sherlock stared at the back of the sofa until his vision began to blur, then he closed his eyes and breathed a long, slow sigh. The fingers in his hair faltered again before continuing to work out the tangles and massage his scalp.

“On the table.” The words dragged out of Sherlock’s numb mouth like molasses. After a beat of silence, the hand caught in his curls disappeared, but the hold on his waist remained. Sherlock heard the sound of pills rattling in a bottle and John’s soft breathing as he no doubt read the label.

It was a few minutes before plastic clinked against the coffee table, and John’s hand reappeared in his hair. This time, his fingers combed through the untangled sections before coming to rest on Sherlock’s nape with a firm but gentle grip.

“Anti-depressants?” John asked the question without inflection or emphasis, just a soft inquiry that made it easier for Sherlock to nod silently against the cushion. John’s thumb pressed into his side with reassuring pressure. “Did you just fill them today?” A jerky head shake and silence in Sherlock’s mouth. The thumb smoothed over his waist. “Not taken any yet, then?” Another head shake and John sighed out a little breath before murmuring, “It’s okay, Sherlock.”

The words hit him like a freight train, and Sherlock tensed, curling tighter inward with his arms around his chest and his knees pulled up to his stomach. John reacted at once, pressing forward until he was against Sherlock’s curved back. His face dropped into the dip between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, first his forehead, then his nose and finally his lips, brushing the skin in a tender touch that made Sherlock’s body vibrate with agonized surprise. The hand on his waist curled forward to draw Sherlock closer, one palm cradling the back of his skull with stunning, unexpected care.

Flashing back to the one time Sherlock held John in his arms as John fell to pieces in much the same way Sherlock felt he might, Sherlock breathed out a strained, choking gasp and pressed his knuckles against his eyes.

When John spoke, his voice was a warm whisper of air over Sherlock’s neck, his arm tightening around Sherlock’s waist. “I’ve got you,” he said, the words made tangible by the way his lips shaped them against Sherlock’s skin. “I’ve got you, Sherlock.”

“The doctor is wrong,” Sherlock finally managed, forcing the statement out through his teeth.

John’s hand stroked over his stomach, a slow, soothing movement. “Maybe,” he said, petting Sherlock’s hair with gentle repetition. “But if not—”

“He _is,”_ Sherlock growled, curling tighter. John responded by pressing forward, keeping the contact between them.

“Okay.” His lips drifted over the bony ridge of Sherlock’s vertebra, where his neck bent forward. The touch was an electric shock, and Sherlock shivered. After days of feeling nothing, John’s warm grasp was nearly overwhelming, but not enough to make him want to pull away. “Okay,” John repeated, breathing out a sigh. “Maybe he is. We can get a second opinion.” Sherlock’s eyes popped open at the word _we_ , but John continued before he could speak, adding, “Whatever it ends up being, if anything, it’s okay. You’ve… you’ve been through a lot, Sherlock, and I want you to know that it… well, it’s okay _not to be okay.”_

Sherlock made a quiet noise, neither agreement nor argument, as his eyes closed again.

Shaking his head, John pressed his cheek to Sherlock’s neck and whispered, “When we met, I was so far from okay, I didn’t even know what that word meant anymore. And then you came along and, well.” He paused, his swallow audible and physical, where their bodies pressed together. “I know things have been a real mess over the last couple of years, and worse with what all just came to pass, and I just need you to know that there’s absolutely _no shame in it,_ Sherlock.” John’s grip tightened, voice deepening with fervency as he pulled Sherlock closer. “Whatever you’re feeling, it’s nothing to feel ashamed of. Whatever you need, we’ll make it happen. As cliche as it sounds, and you might scoff at it, you’re not alone. I…” John faltered before his lips brushed lightly over the skin beneath Sherlock’s ear, making him shiver. “I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock’s face felt wet and salty, and he grimaced at the sensation before opening his eyes. His vision wavered, lashes clinging together. Blinking the moisture away, he tilted his head to the side and felt John’s nose press into his cheek. “John,” he said in a voice that was tight and raspy.

The reply was an immediate, “Yes, Sherlock?” as John’s nose drifted along his jaw, up to his temple and into his hair. Sherlock winced at the fleeting thought of how greasy his unwashed curls must be but managed to push the concern aside in favour of breathing John in.

“I’m not okay.” The admission slipped from his lips as a jagged exhale, and his body tensed with trepidation.

But John nodded and pressed a feather-light kiss to Sherlock’s brow, brushing tangled locks away from Sherlock’s eyes. “That’s alright,” he murmured, steadfast and unshakeable in the face of Sherlock’s confession. “I’ve got you.”


End file.
